


Time and The Fates

by MadamBackslash



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-25
Updated: 2008-09-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 11:58:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13481016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadamBackslash/pseuds/MadamBackslash





	Time and The Fates

Clotho sits with her distaff, spinning the threads of mortal lives onto their spindles. The spindles clatter and whirr as they unwind the existences of those below. Each thread is a birth, a new potential, a thread in the pattern of humanity.

To her right, her sister Lachesis measures the length of every thread that Clotho spins. Mortals have such brief lives, so little time. Some make the most of every waking moment. Others idle through their days.

Atropos sits to Lachesis' right, cutting the threads where her sister indicates. Each snip is a death in the mortal world, a life come to its end. Each is a sadness, but such is the lot of mortals.

From their seats, they can see the mighty loom of humanity, each thread taking its part in the pattern. The Fates alone see each thread that goes into the pattern, can follow its progress through the weave. They see where threads are joined and where they part. They see great joys and great sorrows, lives of great passion and lives full of terrible wrongs.

Clotho spins a bright thread and smiles at its beauty. She winds it onto its spindle and hands the end off to Lachesis, who does not smile.

This thread is not to be a long one. Lachesis measures thirty-eight years and shows Atropos where to cut. With sad eyes, Atropos looks at Clotho. Clotho drops her eyes and nods. While she loves to spin brightness into the pattern, she understands that the fabric of mortality cannot be allowed to outshine the raiment of the gods.

Atropos cuts the thread. The spindle rattles, slows, and finally comes to a stop.

There are powers to whom even the Gods will bow their heads. So when Time makes herself manifest in a shower of golden dust which gyres and hangs in the air like motes in a sunbeam, blue eyes shining with tears, the three sisters set aside their work.

They watch as Time takes the bright thread which Atropos has just cut and ties it. The join is imperfect. As Time's hands let it go it is woven into the history of humankind and Time herself fades away, her golden dust blown on a breeze the sisters do not feel. The sisters are devastated at the flaw in the work, but their respect for Time stays their hands.

The three look into the weave as the spindle rattles, its whirring joining in with the sound of countless others, and see the mortal man come to life with a gasping, shuddering breath. He is alone but for the dust of his sundered enemies.

Clotho and Atropos are interrupted from their observation by the sound of Lachesis weeping. They turn to see their sister with her measuring rod in her hands, her face wet with tears. They ask her why she is crying, wanting to give help and comfort if they can.

"The Lady," she sobs. "The Lady left before I could ask her how much longer."

Arms around each other, The Fates weep.


End file.
